Between the Silence
by Flitz
Summary: A mental jaunt through a not quite so clear path. Jarod oneshot.


**Disclaimer: Jarod, the Centre and all its employees belong to NBC or TNT, not me. I'm borrowing them because they haven't yet thought up a way to charge us. **

He sought solitude, and sometimes he hated himself for it. Hated that he had yet another vestige of the Centre stamped onto his brain. Before he'd escaped he'd never been around more than three or four people at a time, except...except the one terrifying time when he'd been taken before the Triumvirate as a child. Jarod wasn't used to people, he was used to Sydney and his natural opposite, Raines. They defined his life, the good and the bad. All the others in between he didn't remember, or didn't want to remember.

Consequently his first foray into the world outside the Centre had been as if a star had burst in his brain. There were so many people, everywhere it seemed. He knew the exact populations of thousands of cities, and had once calculated how long it would take for the world to die of starvation, but nothing prepared him for the experience.

He brushed past people and mini-pretends of the passerbys chased each other through his skull. Scaling back the overwhelming sensation he'd reached another state of awe. These people, millions of people, had no idea who he was. They didn't want anything from him, except perhaps move a little faster down the sidewalk so they could make an appointment. It was exhilarating and breathtaking, magnificent and any other words his supped up brain could think of, this mixtures of people rushing through a single city street.

At least it was at first.

The years of being the center of attention, at least within his own sphere, did not lend itself to narcissism as one might expect. Rather it led to the development of a strongly introverted nature, hiding from the spotlight. And so many people. It didn't matter whether he was in a two or five star hotel, people were there. Ignorant of the genius of the man that hid amongst them, but still there. Solitude was near impossible to behold. He realized that the limited 'freedom' that he'd had in the Centre wasn't real solitude, but at least it was quiet. Rest times between sims ordered by Sydney, his only confidant and protector.

Years of wishing to be free and among real people. And now all he wanted was moments to be alone. The world could be such a noisy place. Over-stimulation on a grand scale for a pretender. Returning to the Centre was never an option. And Jarod was just beginning to realize that there was no place for a pretender. Even as the most natural pretender he was out of place. Just like the radio-personality that had compiled the stories of Jarod's good Samaritan deeds, people would start to take notice. You couldn't impersonate officials forever. Especially when you constantly used the same first name, and made no attempt to disguise the handwriting on clues left behind for officials in almost every state in the union.

He had erased the private and public records of his pretend of course, but he couldn't erase the memories of all the people he'd come in contact with. Eventually inquiries would be made. A series of Jarod's that appeared for no more than a month at a time, then disappeared just as suddenly, no records to prove his short existence. That was the laugh of it: no records on the outside world to prove his existence, but years and miles of tape, and seeming millions of diskettes that recorded his every waking breath in the special hell that was the Centre.

The government would eventually realize this periodical avenger was not one of their own. They would come looking. He'd have to dodge pursuit on both sides, and how could he help people then?

It hadn't happened yet, but it might. But was this line of thought yet another of the many mind games he played with himself? The only solution then was to leave the country, and did he really want to do that? Africa for all its openness held the power source of the Centre, and Jarod could not bring himself to go there. Other countries coming to mind had agreements with the United States. If he showed up again with a similar M.O. they would be sure to recognize it sooner rather than later. Smaller countries in Central America held promise (they were not renowned for their cooperation with the US) but by and large they were not known for their creature comforts either, something Jarod admitted to himself he was now addicted to.

Jarod spared a moment to wish the world was larger. That there was somewhere else he could possibly escape to. He knew wishing to change his situation wasted time and effort. He was here, this was the situation, and he lived it.

Life would be ever so much easier if he could just destroy the Centre. But it was by far not a one man job. If it were so easy, he would have had his answers long ago. And no matter how much it pained him to say it, even to think it, the Centre for all its poisons and lies was the mother who brought him up. And like the abused child, he couldn't bring himself to strike against it. Only small parlays here and there, trickles of blood and money from the beast that was the Centre.

There was nothing left to do, save to continue on, and listen for the stiletto strikes that heralded his pursuit.


End file.
